


The Stage

by LadyZeppelin1111 (QueenBoudica1770)



Series: Page St James Guitar God [1]
Category: Led Zeppelin, Real Person Fiction, Rock Music RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Arguing, Bisexuality, Conflict, F/F, F/M, Female rock star, Female!Page, Hand Jobs, Madison Square Garden, Page St James - Freeform, Page is the only woman in her band, Sex flipped, Sexflipped, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Vaginal Fingering, genderbent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:47:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26688403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenBoudica1770/pseuds/LadyZeppelin1111
Summary: Ok since Wetkitty420 came up with gender flipped Jimmy it's been humping my leg, and as she's invited others to do fics with her, here we are. As if I didn't have enough things I'm writing on, but this is something I kinda wanna explore.Also thanks to Ledbythreads who makes my ovaries explode with delight with her stuff.Anyways, Page St James on stage and off,  the 1973 Madison Square Garden shows. Get your face melted off with rock.
Relationships: Jimmy Page/Robert Plant
Series: Page St James Guitar God [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946401
Comments: 12
Kudos: 11





	The Stage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wetkitty420](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wetkitty420/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Bounce](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26539969) by [wetkitty420](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wetkitty420/pseuds/wetkitty420). 
  * Inspired by [Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26647423) by [ledbythreads](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ledbythreads/pseuds/ledbythreads). 



> Robert teases Page and gets more than he bargained for. 
> 
> Ok so Page St James would likely wear her stage suits like [this](https://images.app.goo.gl/xWGcwWVBbFnTAPvM7). Female rock stars for the win.

Robert fluffed his hair one last time, walked to the backstage area to find Page turning up a bottle of Jack Daniels, the amber liquid going down like a funnel. God, but she could put it away, but then, she was a studio musician when he was still singing Elvis from behind the curtains. 

Last night at Madison Square Garden, then they were going to Morocco. Not alone, of course, for propriety's sake there would be a few roadies and minders, but Robert was looking forward to it, he knew they would find inspiration there in that ancient land. She looked at him, that normal steely expression one of nervous concern, what-ifs speeding through her perfectionist brain, worry in those feline green eyes. It was the reason for the liquid fortification she was imbibing. It didn't help that there was footage being shot for the planned concert film they hoped to release so there were camera crews and recording technicians all over, in addition to the regular Zeppelin army.

For some reason, it pleased Robert to know he was one of the few human beings to see moments like this. "I s'pose 'are ya nervous' would be a stupid thing to say at this moment," he said.

That look of anxiety quickly dropped off Page's round face, replaced with one of evil amusement, and she replied, "Why stop saying stupid shit now? You've made a career out of it."

After a few seconds of silence, both roared out in laughter. Yep, Pagey was fine. "And here I thought it was me cock that was the big draw," the blond singer quipped.

"Well it appears the front row will know size, shape, length, and so on with those trousers. You slut."

"Look who I have to compete with," countered Robert. "That suit is worth more than most countries."

"I have taste, unlike you," sniffed Page, then took another swig of Jack Daniels before putting the mostly empty bottle on the table. Robert snickered, grateful for jokingly ribbing him Page instead of taskmaster Page or shouting about everything being wrong Page. Indeed she had a style of her own, smashing gender norms in fashion in addition to heavy music and her personal life. She was wearing the embroidered rose jacket and the beautiful moon pants with the planets, that fit her perfectly. She wore nothing under the jacket, with only two buttons keeping the operation from not being a burlesque show. Robert noticed the kohl smudged around her eyes, making them pop. She usually wore little makeup, she was too busy over hundreds of other things to worry with it most times.

It was by her hand that the Zeppelin flew.

Bonzo and Jonesy had entered the area, remaining quiet when they beheld the pair staring at one another. 

And then her game face was back on. It happened in less than a second, Page St. James moving into business mode. Minutes later, the time had arrived, and they were ushered through the passage to the stage. Walking out under the lights, with thousands of screaming, cheering fans, all there for them, all four of them soaked it up; it was like a drug. 

They slammed into the opener, 'Rock and Roll' and there they were, communing with this crowd of people, offering up their bodies and music to them. They loved it, the fans lost their minds when Robert moaned and gyrated or Page jumped into the air and landed perfectly during a solo, or when they leaned against each other, sweaty, enraptured in the song they were playing. Yin and yang, male and female, but they carried both in good measure inside each of them--they both ripped up the standard of what one should do or be or wear based on what was in their pants. The roles could've been switched, it wouldn't have mattered if both were male or both female, they complemented each other, the dynamic couldn't be denied. Page danced over during a solo, pressed her back against Robert's front, the whole length of her slender frame melding into him, sweaty ebony hair just under his nose as she was a tall one, like him, and Robert could've came right then. He fought the urge to run backstage in horror and/or wank off, breathed Page's scent, so familiar, then smiled at the cheers of the audience losing their collective minds at the sexual energy.

Page whirled around, backed away, winked at him, the heavy eyeliner melting with her copious sweating, but it only made her look more bad assed. Robert hoped to God his member twitching couldn't be seen by anyone, as he was not wearing underwear as per his usual performance routine, and his jeans were as the guitarist had mentioned earlier, extremely tight. Thankfully he didn't get a boner, so someone upstairs must love him, and he took up the song again when it was his cue. He would get her back. Somehow. 

Pagey was incredible, though--a performer, not just someone strumming notes. Her look, movements, stage persona, were all carefully crafted. All product to be consumed by the masses.

/An interview Robert caught years later, a video where Jeff Beck was talking about Page, Robert smoking cigarettes and smiling as he watched.

"Yeah, I gave Page the '59 Tele that she painted the dragon on," he was saying. "Art school girl, that one," he laughed. "Naw, I never regretted not keeping it for myself. She ended up gifting me with an ancient Maccafferri-a plastic guitar! But the sound on that, incredible! You wouldn't believe it. I never stopped playing it, matter of fact."

Much of the interviewers speech was edited out.

"...Oh, I knew when I saw her in that tweed suit and scarves and playing that Tele with a bow, that whatever she'd do would be huge. Jealous? No, though she nicked some riffs from me and a few others, no man, that didn't bother me."

"...whatchoo talking about, 'women in rock music'? She ain't a man or woman, she's a force to be reckoned with. Get off it."

"Look, she toured in America with us and did more than her fair share, crammed into vans and shitty hotel rooms and lugging her own gear."

"Did we ever…? Now that's none of your damn business. She was my bandmate. Fuck off."

Robert shook his head, stubbed out the cigarette. Yes. Fastidious. Private. Driven. Hard.

Little that people knew, that there was a Godmother of rock and roll. Rosetta Tharpe, a virtuoso on electric guitar and a powerful, soulful voice, her approach led to the new genre of music, birthed in the United States, then eventually transplanted to Britain. Bold, sassy, talented, bisexual, she would play as an older woman in England, where they ate it up. A real, live blues guitarist. A woman.

Why not a woman?

Why would it even matter?/

During 'Whole Lotta Love' when they shared the microphone, Robert breathed into her ear, whispered the filthiest things into Page's ear before licking her neck, then pulling away. Page's emerald eyes widened, then another familiar expression draped over her face. 

Yeah, he was probably gonna pay.

If so, he was going to go big, so he tossed his poofy golden locks, shook his ass, quivered, moaned, screamed, carried on like a cat in heat. Page never faltered in her playing, but those green eyes narrowed to slivers.

He didn't know what she would do to him, but he was actually excited.

He was really gonna pay

Once they got through the final encore, 'Thank You' Robert knew he might as well get the shit over with and went straight to his dressing room. The guitarist was hot on his heels and slammed the door behind them.

"What the hell was that?!" she yelled.

And it's begun. Let's go.

"What was what?" Robert was good at playing dumb.

"Could you be any more blatant? What, you want we should just shag on stage right there?"

"Isn't that what we've been doing all this time?"

"You fucking twat, you daft cunt!" she roared.

Robert, leaning against the dressing room table, visibly winced.

"Have you no subtlety? No common sense? It's the implication, the fun the audience can get it on. It's not supposed to be real, to really happen in front of God and everybody!"

It was Robert's turn to narrow those big blue eyes. "Oh? All that pillow talk was nothing, hm? Just your little dog to come when called, go back to his doghouse when not needed."

"You know what I mean!" She pointed a long, slim, delicate finger at him. "You have a family!" She practically screamed at him. To be the singer he was, Robert suddenly envied her lungs. She was in full on meltdown mode now. "All of you have families! Wives, little hometown buddies, all of it. What have I got, hm? WHAT HAVE I??" She started snatching objects off tables, beer bottles, hair products, ashtrays and the like and lobbing them at him. He bobbed and weaved like a boxer but was still struck by some of it.

Oh, bugger. This was the worst he'd seen her. He also knew she admitted something she'd never even admit to herself, let alone him. He was bewildered and even a bit frightened at this point. "Pagey. Love," he started, but she cut him off.

"Don't start that lovey shit with me," she growled.

"But you have Scarlet and Charlotte--"

"It's not the same! You know this you wacky cunt! You can play the cock rocker on tour, then go back to your respectable little farm with the kids and little wifey. Don't you even. God, Robbie, I hate you sometimes." She visibly deflated, tired, but no less angry, and ran out of things to throw.

"Pagey, I--"

"Fuck you, Robert. Fuck. You."

Robert, stung, blinked back tears. He had no idea this was the reaction he'd get. This was something that Page had been carrying around for a while now, apparently. 

Well, that was probably it, then. The mighty Zeppelin imploding and it was all Robert's fault. He slowly started toward the door, to go back to the hotel. Should he pack his bags, start making arrangements to fly back home? What was he going to do? He passed by Page standing there, head down, sweaty and exhausted like him, fists clenched. Standing. Alone.

He'd never tried to hurt her, yet he had, and she'd hurt him, intentionally. He was more than a hired singer, more than a pair of hands and tongue to get her off when needed, an understanding body that never asked questions when she demanded, took.

He was going to just walk past her, that's it, he loved her but didn't want to...no. He caved like he always did when it came to Page. That's who he was. Golden God. Big heart. Bleeding soul. The consumate hippie. He gathered her into his arms, she stiffened, he only clutched tighter. After several long moments that slender frame relaxed in his warm, comforting grip. She twisted, reached up, kissed him fiercely, her tongue probing his mouth, that talented mouth, she moaned into his mouth, he swallowed it down, savored it. Those delicate hands were on him, shucked off the women's blouse he wore, ran themselves over that broad, sweat-soaked chest. She pressed that sharp body into him, some wanton, ethereal being from some other place and time, then undid her trousers. "Nnnh. Make me come. Need to feel.."

Robert's fingers slid into her slit, wet, needing. He worked in and out, she ground her hips against his hand. "Ahh. Robert, my pretty boy. Nnng." She slid the moon pants down, walked to the dressing room table, hopped onto it, spread those long, slim legs. Robert wanted so badly to bury his cock in her, but as usual things only happened when Page allowed it. He stepped into the embrace of those amazing legs, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing, rolling, and she's moaning, he sees she's unbuttoned the beautiful rose jacket, tweaking her own nipples, lost in her need. He's kissing that smooth white throat, tasting the sweat of four hours of playing nonstop rock and roll. 

Then she's there, that pale, smooth body trembling as she comes, and he feels her grow more wet, his hand slick with her juices. She groaned out the last of her orgasm, and he pulled his fingers out of her with a slurp. "Rob. Darling boy," she sighed, and pulled her trousers up and fastened them, then leaned her head against his chest. He wanted to help her, to tell her wanted to help her, but he knew better. 

He had closed his eyes, enjoying being able to offer at least this much. Then there were fingers undoing his belt and jeans, pulling out his still hard dick, and lightly running those talented fingers up and down its length. The singer's eyes flew open, to see Page, jacket open, that alabaster abdomen and milky white, round little breasts on display, stroking him. Surprised by her yet again, he let her do as she would, which was jerk him off like a pro. He fell apart in those stone hard hands that played him deftly like she did the Theremin. And scream like a Theremin he did, not able to believe she'd made him come in minutes.

She raised her hand to his face, and he licked his come from her hand. He should feel humiliated, him obeying without her even saying a word, but this was Page, the one he was used to, not the lost screaming girl, this was the way it was supposed to be. The one in control, the Master.

She retrieved the singer's blouse from the floor and handed it to him, then buttoned the jacket back. "Don't think we're done, Robert. When we get back to the hotel room, you're gonna work on me with the toys in my black box. And I'm gonna work on you." Without preamble, she unlocked and opened the dressing room door, and Robert followed her to the limo awaiting them.

Well, things were looking up. Robert smiled behind Page's back.

**Author's Note:**

> Whew there turned out to be more to unpack than I initially expected. 
> 
> I'm still getting used to this new flavor lol.
> 
> I'd totally bang girl Jimmy, she's not that different whatever she has in her pants lol.


End file.
